Soul of Darkness
by SiriuslyPadfoot12
Summary: What happened the night that all three Riddles dropped dead in their dinner clothes? This story illustrates the death of Tom Riddle by Lord Voldemort that cold night in Little Hangleton, and the story of Voldemort's life. Please r/r!!


Soul of Darkness

By Meagan, a.k.a. Hyper-HpGrl

            The night it happened, there was no moon in the sky. The stars seemed to douse their lights in fear of what would happen that night. Evil roamed free on the streets, filling everyone's soul with fear. It hid itself in the darkness that had crept into the town. No one knew what it was and no one knew what would happen until the morn.

            The family called Riddle knew what happened. In fact, the happening that occurred was about nothing but them. They knew nothing of it as they ate their dinner in silence. They didn't acknowledge the sound of the door opening and closing, for they thought it only their maid leaving for home.

            Footsteps rang down the corridor. Frowning, middle-aged Tom Riddle looked away from his dinner and at the door. "Mother," he said in a whinny voice, "We have no maid on a night-shift, do we?"

            Mrs. Riddle put her fork down and dabbed daintily at her mouth with a napkin. "No, son," she said in an equally whinny voice, "But perhaps it is only that old gardener of ours, Frank Bryce. He has a key to the back door."

            "Yes. He sometimes enters the kitchen to find old scraps of food to fertilize his plants," Mr. Marvolo Riddle, Tom's father, said. He hadn't bothered looking up. He took his steak knife and cut a small piece of prime rib off. He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly, as if he, too, doubted what he said.

            Tom sneered at the door, his face wrinkling unpleasantly. He took his wine glass and threw his head back, taking a large swig of it. He set the glass down and licked his lips.

            Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. The fine hair on his arms prickled. Startled, his head snapped up. His mother was looking at him, as was his father. He could tell by the looks on their faces that they had felt it also.

            Mr. Riddle's eyebrows drew together quizzically. He set his fork down and looked at the window. "The window is probably open. It must be a draft."

            The door across the room swished open. All three Riddles turned around to look and see whom it was.

            Standing in the doorway was a boy no older than seventeen. His shiny black hair was neat and kempt. His skin was as pale as moonbeams. He was dressed in a black robe, with gray pants and a white dress shirt underneath. A green and silver striped tie hung around his neck, and a crest of the same colors was sewed on the right breast of his robes. His long, spindly fingers clutched a long round stick. His lips were drawn back over his pearl white teeth in a menacing smile.

            It was the boy's eyes that made Tom recoil. They were blue, which was normal enough, but the pupil was stretched long and horizontal, like a snake's. Only a little white was shown past the blue iris. The iris was speckled with red. His eyes shone brightly in the low lamplight.

            "Yes, I do have my mother's eyes, don't I?" the boy said in an oddly high-pitched and cold voice. Just hearing the voice sent another chill down Tom's spine. The boy gracefully walked into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. He seemed to float across the floor.

            "You don't recognize me, do you?" the boy hissed. He stopped at the table and ran one long finger over the polished wood. "It's quite pitiful, really." He turned quickly. His robes snapped at the sudden movement. He looked Tom up and down. "Yes, very pitiful."

            "Who are you?" asked Mr. Riddle, his eyes narrowed. The boy glanced at Mr. Riddle with his strange eyes. "I would shut up if I were you, muggle. I possess more power in my little finger than you do in your whole body. Wait to speak until you are spoken to, if you wish to live longer."

            Mr. Riddle opened his mouth to speak again, but the boy raised his stick and muttered something. Mr. Riddle gagged and gurgled as he tried to speak, but no sound other than that emerged from his throat. He clutched at his throat and choked on his words. His eyes watered and he writhed in obvious pain. "Marvolo!" shrieked Mrs. Riddle.

            Tom realized with sudden fury and fear that this boy was a wizard. His eyes got round and his jaw trembled.  His shaking hand clutched his steak knife. A spasm crossed his face, as if he were wondering whether to use it or not.

            "You're not thinking about using that, are you, my dear man?" the boy asked. He leisurely flicked his wand. The steak knife flew up and out of Tom's hand. It lodged itself into the ceiling and didn't fall back down.

            "You don't even want to know why I'm here? Tut, tut. However, I shall tell you. Hmmm… where does the story begin? It should have begun about… eighteen years ago, say?" the boy said.

            Before Tom could stop himself, he said, "You weren't even _born _eighteen years ago!"

            The boy narrowed his eyes. "True," he said, "I was not born. You, however, were engaged. Engaged to a witch, a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself. You married her, and got her pregnant. Then she told you… Told you what she was. Told you that she was a witch. She _loved_ you. But you left. You left her because she was what she was. Do you think she chose to be a witch? No, it was a birthright, as it is for me."

            Tom was shaking. His parents were staring at him, eyes wide. "How do you know? How can you possibly know this?"

            The boy laughed, sending another chill down Tom's spine. Then, he cut it short so suddenly that Tom jumped. He put his face near Tom's. He turned away sharply and started to pace. "The child was born. The witch, your wife, died in childbirth. The child was sent to live at an orphanage. Eleven years later, the child got a letter. It said that he was to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

            "For ten glorious months each year, the child went to Hogwarts and learned magic. He absorbed as much information as he could. He became the top student in every class. He was named prefect in his fifth year, and Head Boy in his seventh and last year. Then the child left, to make a name for himself in the world."

            Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of Tom's face. His heart had leapt into his throat. Iron fists seemed to be clenching his lungs. The room seemed suddenly to be uncomfortably warm. He pulled at the collar of his shirt.

            "Who is that child? Who is that boy? Who… who is my son?" Tom asked. His throat constricted and barely let the words out.

            The boy stopped pacing. He turned sharply. His robes flared out, as if caught by a strong wind. His eyes flashed, the red specks becoming more pronounced. "The witch lived long enough to name her son. Your son. She named him Tom, after his father, and Marvolo, after his grandfather. His name is Thomas Marvolo Riddle."

            "Who are you?" whispered Tom. The world started to spin for him.

            "My name is Tom, after my father." The boy said, his voice barely audible, "My middle name is Marvolo, after my grandfather. My mother named me Thomas Marvolo Riddle, the name of my accursed muggle father."

            "Son?" breathed Tom.

            "If you are expecting me to call you 'Father', you can think again. No, I can never consider you my father. You shunted my mother because she was something she didn't choose to be.

            "Now, before I kill you, I will tell you all that I have gone through. I will tell you all the pain you have caused me. I will tell you the ambitions you started." Thomas Marvolo Riddle, son of Thomas Riddle, descendant of Salazar Slytherin, said.

            "I lived at an orphanage for eleven years. I knew nothing but that orphanage. I saw the other kids my age get adopted by loving families, but no one ever wanted the strange, pale child with the large blue eyes. Then, on my eleventh birthday, a letter written on parchment arrived at the orphanage for me. A letter inviting me to attend a school, where I should learn magic.

            "I went to that school. Hogwarts felt like a real home to me. I learned everything I possibly could. I devoured every piece of knowledge I could put my hands on. I especially loved the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. It told of a room holding a terrible monster that would cleanse the school of muggle-born, Mudblood filth. 

"What is Mudblood filth? Why, it is a wizard born into a muggle family. A wizard with unclean blood. A wizard born to muggles is no true wizard, but a fluke. Only wizards with long running bloodlines should enter Hogwarts. I agreed with the legend and with my ancestor. Hogwarts _should_ be purged of such filth.

"The legend said that only Slytherin's heir could unleash the horror within the Chamber. It took me five long years to find the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. I set the Monster of the Chamber of Secrets, a Basilisk, on several Mudblood students, finally killing one. Of course, when the Ministry of Magic threatened to close the school, I had to stop. I set up the fool of a wizard Rubeus Hagrid. Headmaster Dippet fell for it and believed me. Who would suspect the prefect and top of the class Tom Riddle over the fool, always-in-trouble Rubeus Hagrid."

Thomas Marvolo Riddle started to pace again. His teeth were bared, as if in pain. His eyeteeth were a lot larger than any normal person's.

"I knew your whole story from one of my mother's friends. From the moment that the story of my birth reached my ears, I vowed to get revenge. I would kill the fool of a muggle… the muggle I was named after. I fashioned myself a new name, however. I was not going to stand to be called by the name of the man who calls himself my father. No. I made myself a new name, a name wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak: Lord Voldemort.

"At Hogwarts, I began to learn the Dark Arts. I used spells and chants that would make me immortal. I memorized the Unforgivable Curses: the Crucious Curse, that causes torture by pain and can make one loose their mind; the Imperius Curse, that gives the caster of the spell complete control over the victim; and, finally, the Death Spell, that will kill anything in its path without use of knives or any such foolishness.

"You are going to be the lucky testers for my first Death Spell. Of course, I've practiced on animals and such, but this is my first time doing it on anything as complex as a human, although just a simple muggle. I considered sparing you, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, my grandparents, for you had nothing to do with me. However, I see that you are just as bad as the piece of slime that is my father, and will have to do away with you. Yes. I will kill all three of you." Lord Voldemort said.

Tom gasped. "No! Don't kill me!" he shrieked, throwing himself at young Voldemort's feet, "Kill them! I was young! I didn't understand!"

Voldemort spit on Tom. "You are even more of a piece of slime than I expected! You want me to kill your parents so you can live! I will make your death painful now!" Voldemort said. He pointed his wand at his cowering father. "_Crucio_!"

Tom let lose a bloodcurdling scream. He fell over onto his side, writhing in absolute pain. His head thrashed violently from side-to-side. All his limbs twitched and convulsed. His eyes were so wide they seemed ready to pop out of his head. His nostrils flared. His fingers were white and bloodless as they stretched for some sort of comfort. His throat was stretched tight.

Mrs. Riddle screamed. Mr. Riddle gargled and coughed. Voldemort laughed, enjoying the experience.

Voldemort lifted his wand. Tom stopped thrashing like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He gasped for air, tears streaming down his face.

Voldemort pointed his wand again. Tom looked at it, his face livid with unimaginable terror. Voldemort grinned and laughed. "Goodbye, Father. May this death be a painful one." He said. He swished his was around and said, "_Avada Kedavra_!"

Green smoke issued from the tip of Voldemort's wand. It rushed at Tom, who screamed and tried to scramble away. Green death rushed at him. He screamed an unearthly shriek as the spell hit him. His whole body shuddered. His eyes rolled into his head. He collapsed into a lifeless heap on the floor.

Mrs. Riddle screamed again. Voldemort whirled around. He lifted the spell from Mr. Riddle so he could hear his grandfather scream in terror. Then he swished his wand again, shouting, "_Avada Kedavra_!" The instant the green smoke touched Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, they both fell instantly dead.

Voldemort stood before his dead family. Their faces were frozen in looks of complete and utter terror. Their eyes were open and glassy. He smiled, his lips stretched bloodless over his teeth. His eyes danced.

"The reign of Lord Voldemort has begun!" he cried. He turned. His robes snapped. He floated across the room. He looked over his shoulder and laughed at the lifeless bodies. "It has begun," he whispered and, with that, he left.

**A/N: This is one of the creepiest stories I've ever written. I got this idea as I started reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for the 22nd time. I am not exaggerating. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!**


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